


Low Lamp Light

by thedistortionist



Category: Half-Life
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Blood and Violence, Detective Noir, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Content, but make it modern-ish, homophobia and implied transphobia, seriously mind the tags guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27710135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedistortionist/pseuds/thedistortionist
Summary: Gordon Freeman is a highly skilled detective who's unable to give up the thrill of the chase. When a simple case of a man cheating on his wife leads him down a rabbit hole of break-ins, heists, and murder, he can't pull himself away. Will he find the culprit? Or will this trail lead to an end...perhaps his own?
Relationships: Barney Calhoun/Gordon Freeman
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	1. Canary

Mist curls off of the street as private detective Gordon Freeman makes his way through the maze of a city. It’s cold, the kind of cold that crawls inside of your coat and nests inside of your joints, almost purposefully spiteful in it’s bitterness. As he walks, the smoke of his cigarette mixes with his hot breath, equal parts smoke and sigh.  
  
_I should’ve sworn off cheating cases years ago. They never get anywhere and it usually ends in murder._  
  
And yet, he continued walking, the thrill of the chase too intoxicating to quit. It was like a compulsion; once he took a case, he had to see it to it’s end — no matter how convoluted, twisted, or disturbing. He had been one of the forerunners in the solving of the Black Mesa murders; a case that involved the deaths and subsequent covering up of over a hundred people. That put both a target on his head for those involved and those who wanted his help. Simply known as “Detective Freeman” now, he kept to himself, only taking cases he knew wouldn’t get him in too much trouble — occasionally, he still gets knives pinned to his door, or the even-lazier shooting out of his windows. It hadn’t happened in quite a while, though that was due to the recent move, and dropping of his first name. There were rumors, of course, of who he was, but he simply denied them until they dropped the questions.

He arrives at his destination without any fanfare and pushes the glass door open, marked with greasy handprints and one long, deep crack in the upper left corner. A fading neon sign says “open,” but for all of the care that’s been taken of the outer facade, it could’ve been abandoned. A red fox darts into the alley behind the building, momentarily catching Gordon off guard, but he shakes his head and pushes the door open.

\---

It's dark in the bar when Gordon enters.

Not dark enough that he can't see -- but just enough that everything has that hazy sheen, like looking through the bottom of an empty bottle of whiskey. He knows this place; he may never have been here, specifically, before, but it's all the same people, same drinks, same lives -- lowlives and high-cost city dwellers sitting together, sharing bottles of cheap alcohol under the cover of darkness.

Gordon moves to the back of the large, open room to survey the area and try and pick his target; a man accused of cheating by his wife, who was all to ready to shell out cash for proof of his activities. He perches on the faux leather seat, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, the smell of cigars and unfiltered cigarettes already pervading his nostrils. He orders one of the cheapest beers and continues to attempt to locate his prey. When it arrives, he drops his wallet in order to be able to look into the booth next to him -- _Yeah, this is my man. Out at a seedy bar with his mistress...unfortunate for his wife, lucrative for me._ Gordon tucks it back into his coat pocket and sits back in his chair, thumbing the small phone stashed in the inner left pocket, waiting for his opportunity to snap a shot, and give the poor woman her closure.

_And me, my paycheck._

He's almost ready to start a diversion before there's the whine of a microphone being plugged in and tested, then a voice speaks in a tinny register that Gordon would almost find offensive to his ears.

"Tonight, we have a special guest on the stage...Introducing Mr. Calhoun, and alongside him, The Blackbirds! Pay attention now, everyone, because they rarely perform anymore...this may be your only chance!" The voice whines into the mic, and it's almost enough to get Gordon to stand up and leave, but something makes him stay when the curtains open, and a slow, deliberate note chimes from a saxophone.

"Evenin', everyone...beautiful night.”

_This is “Mr. Calhoun?” He sounds like a hick._ Gordon thinks, rolling his eyes behind his beer, and crossing his legs, unfortunately interested in the show unfolding in front of him.

"We're gonna start the night off slow...keep it nice and low-key." It's like the man is singing his words, and Gordon finds himself sitting up a little straighter, trying to get a better glimpse at his face -- currently shrouded in shadow from the backlights. He's so wrapped up in trying to decipher this new character in the line-up of tonight that he's startled when he starts singing, a soft timbre that makes something in his chest flutter.

_Flutter? No. Absolutely not._

But he pretends that he doesn't scoot closer to the stage, as much as he can in his booth, and that he doesn't feel his face heating up when he hears the line _"I'll make you happy, baby, just wait and see -- for every kiss you give me, I'll give you three..."_

Gordon's almost certain Mr. Calhoun gives him a look as he croons out the song, running his left hand up the side of the microphone stand, and Gordon can't help but wonder what else those hands can do — strong, and big, most definitely bigger than his own. He’s hypnotized as they wander up and down the micstand, fingers tracing the small bands that arced up the sides of the stand, thumbs caressing the undoubtably cold metal with a gentleness reserved for handling a lover, strong forearms lightly brushing against the cord of the microphone — Gordon clears his throat and takes another sip, averting his eyes from the stage. The rest of the band is in a half-moon around Mr. Calhoun, each in deep navy blue costumes with accents of a bright orange-red, and Mr. Calhoun himself in neat dark blue slacks with a slightly-open dress shirt; his orange tie is slung around his neck like it had been haphazardly pulled loose.

Gordon makes it through the rest of the song without incident, aside from his eyes wandering, but when the next song starts and he nearly drops his glass. Mr. Calhoun is making eye contact with him, and it’s a heavy-lidded look you’d typically associate with something dark and lusty.

_"You're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off of you --_

_I love you baby, and if it's quite alright, I need you baby --_

_To warm the lonely nights, trust in me when I say…"_

Multiple thoughts cross Gordon’s mind at once, most of them the fear that he’d been recognized by someone who would gladly hurt him. One flash of a muzzle and it would be over with for him; he kicks himself when he realizes how easy it was to lure him here. Gordon stands up and throws a crumpled ten on the table, and he hears Mr. Calhoun's voice falter for half a note before it regains control, and he continues on -- Gordon leaves without acquiring his pictures and decides he'll follow up another night.

\---

On his walk home, Gordon pulls the collar of his coat higher, and doesn't make eye contact with anyone as he walks by. There's a sick feeling in his gut as he feels the paranoia settling in, that someone is following him, and he ducks into a doorway and hides by way pf pulling the collar higher and pretending to study something in his hands, an electronic, perhaps. He attempts to rationalize his actions by way of someone observing him from the outside; if he saw someone do this, he would immediately be suspicious, but not enough to interrogate or follow; yes, yes, he was simply trying to get out of the light drizzle and fumble with the keys on his old flip phone. Of course, nothing suspicious about that. The feeling remains, though, so he waits for it to pass and for his heart to stop pounding and throat to open once again so he could breathe -- he checks the phone and realizes thirty minutes had passed. When he pulls himself from the doorway, the fox is sitting nearby again, no doubt waiting for him to drop some scrap of food it was used to snapping up.   
  
"I don't have anything. Shoo." He says hoarsely, making a "shoo" motion with his hands. "Go find a trash can. I don't have anything." 

The fox, not knowing English, simply sat there and watched Gordon as if he were a mildly interesting television show. Gordon huffed in frustration and sat on the doorstep, facing the fox as the rain got heavier. It tentatively took a few steps toward him, until it was just under the overhang, out of the rain. 

"You are a strange fox."

It, of course, didn't answer. It yawned, showing off bright white teeth and a pink tongue, and Gordon's breath hitched when the yawn ended in a growl. It wasn't as if he could run; if the animal attacked, he would be defenseless. So he stayed still and kept his eyes on it, looking for a way out. 

"Why won't you go find a better place to stay? I don't need company, I'm just waiting for the storm to blow over." Gordon sighed, leaning his head into his palm. "It's not like you can understand what I'm saying..."

The fox made another growling sound, and Gordon shrunk back, eyes widening. 

"Can you please move? I need to go home."

The fox stared impassively. 

"Why won't you move? I don't have any food for you!"

It turned tail and walked away into the rain. At this point, Gordon was shivering, and the wind had picked up -- it was almost painful. He could feel his joints starting to ache, and wow, his bed would be really great right about now...

"Hey, mister? You alright?"

Gordon sat bolt-upright when he heard that familiar, musical voice — Mr. Calhoun!

“Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask.” Gordon said flatly, not making eye contact with the handsome man, and trying to stifle his shivers. Mr. Calhoun knelt down next to him and cocked his head, eyeing him up.

“You look like you’re about to turn into a popsicle, cat. How about you let me walk you home?” The man asked, shrugging his shoulders — Mr. Calhoun was already soaked, Gordon noticed, like he’d been walking for a while — _just my luck he managed to find me._

“Can I get your name.” Gordon asked flatly. It wasn’t a question; if Calhoun refused, he would immediately be put on a suspect list. But…if he was a regular at that bar, he might know the woman that was accompanying Mr. Unfaithful.

“Th’ name’s Barney. Barney Calhoun.” Barney said, freely and of his own admission. Gordon’s eyebrow temporarily quirked at the ease of which he gave his name — but maybe he was just too paranoid. “How about you, mister?”

“…Freeman. My name’s Freeman.” He mumbled, and Barney nodded, mouth hooked in a half-smile. Gordon felt that same flutter and quashed it down, setting his mouth in a grim line. “By the way, there’s a fox around here. Be careful.”

“Oh, Henry? He ain’t dangerous, just real friendly.” Barney offered his hand to help Gordon up, who reluctantly accepted, and let Barney pull him to his feet. Gordon lost his balance on the uneven stones and tumbled forward, and Barney’s arm shot out to catch him, pulling him close.

“Sorry — damn stones —“ Gordon snarled, pulling himself away and brushing himself off.

“No worries, cat, as long as you ain’t going to take another tumble.” Barney laughed, shrugging off his own coat and slinging it around Gordon’s shoulders. “Here, take it while I walk you back. You look like half-frozen, Freeman!”

Gordon grumbled as he led the way through the streets back to his apartment. Letting a strange man come home with him wouldn’t have been in any realm of the imagination if it weren’t for the fact that Barney could be related to the case, if he was a regular of the bar…when they arrived at the door, Gordon unlocked the door, and stepped inside. He cleared his throat awkwardly and left the door open.

“I was, ah, wondering if you would come in for a moment, so I could ask you some questions. I’m a detective.” Noticing the look on Barney’s face, he quickly backtracked. “Nothing you did — you’re not a suspect in any case. I’m investigating a case of cheating by a regular of that bar you were performing at.”

Barney seemed to relax minutely at this and stepped inside, immediately moving towards the electric fireplace. Gordon flipped it on and pulled the coats off, hanging them up on the back of the door and taking his place in his armchair by the fire. Barney's coat smelled smoky, not unlike his own; but it was woodsier, deeper, like a campfire. _A rather nice smell_ , he thought, before Barney broke him out of his thoughts.

“So, detective, what do y’wanna know about?” Barney said in that low lilt of his — Gordon cleared his throat again and snagged a notepad from his table, and poised a pen over the paper.

“I’m looking into who may be accompanying Mr. Jenson…”


	2. Snipe

Barney proved to be a dead end. Through all of Gordon’s prodding and picking, all he knew was that the woman’s name was Catherine Foster, and a great deal younger than the much older Mr. Jenson. Barney speculated it was all money — that was something the Jensons had in spades — before sighing and crossing his arms.

“I just don’t understand why you would go out and find someone just to take their money. That seems like too much of a hassel.” Barney said, tone light. “If she wanted his money, why not just rob them blind?”

Gordon made a rough noise in his throat and tapped the pen impatiently on the paper.

“I don’t know why people do things like this. Everything would be easier if they just behaved normally.” He grumbled. “Maybe she likes the danger of it. Or the companionship. It’s just my job to catch them in the act.” He draws out a cigarette from the package beside him, after tamping the pack down, and fitting it between his lips. He pats around for his lighter but can’t can’t find it — Barney produces one from his pocket and leans forward, flicking it alight. Gordon leans forward as well and catches the tip of the cigarette into the soft flame, eyes flickering from the fire to Barney’s dark eyes, focused on lighting his cig. When they pull away, Barney cocks his head and recrosses his arms, clearly thinking about something. Hoping it was pertinent to the case, Gordon started prodding again.

“Really, if you know anything else, now would be the time to tell me. I’m running short on time and need to get these photos as proof of them together to Mrs. Jenson as soon as possible.” Gordon said softly. He takes a drag, blows the smoke off to the side, “That’s how you can help me the most right now.”

“No…I’m just thinking about earlier. You had an opportunity to take the photos, why didn’t you take it?” There’s a furrow in Barney’s brow now, and he’s obviously clueless about how his singing had an effect on Gordon; _he wasn’t singing at you, genius, there were so many others around._ And yet, Gordon still froze up for half a moment, before casting his gaze out to the window. It had begun to snow; fat, heavy flakes drifting down from the sky.

“You should probably go, before the storm kicks up.” Gordon said, unable to meet Barney’s eyes. “I don’t want anyone thinking anything is…going on.”

Barney nodded slowly.

“…Right. Listen, I’m at the bar on Tuesdays and Fridays — so tomorrow — and I’ll try and gather some information on where they go other than there. Let me give you my number.” Barney said quickly, and somewhat hushed, like he didn’t want anyone to hear. Gordon handed him his cell and let Barney tap in his number, then hand it back. Gordon put it back into his pocket without looking at it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, detective. Good luck.” Barney let himself out and slipped into the hall, shooting him one last furtive glance, caught by Gordon. It wasn’t until Gordon was shutting the curtains for the night that he realized Barney had left his coat.

\--

Gordon’s thoughts that night are consumed with Barney. Something wasn’t adding up about the man — the easy way he spoke and presented himself, the way he acted around him, along with his odd persona as a nightclub singer…something just wasn’t adding up. He was hiding something, clearly, but, who wasn’t? Gordon’s hands wandered down to his chest and ribs, splaying his fingers out over them, wishing his hands were bigger than they are.

“There’s something you’re not telling me…” He whispers into the still night air, still running his fingers up and down his ribs, to his hips, tracing down his thighs — “…And I’m going to find out what it is.”

He continues to explore his body, or, re-explore — since his surgery, the scars were still something to get used to, deep slices into the soft flesh of his abdomen. His fingers graze near his groin before he pulls back, like he’d been shocked. He pulls the blanket up higher, just below the scars, and rolls onto his side. His thoughts drift to Barney again. Mr. Calhoun, the singer at The Birdcage, someone who talks like he could as easily woo a woman as he could knock down a brick wall…and to be handsome on top of all of that? _Untenable_. Gordon rolls onto his other side, the afterimage of Barney lighting his smoke plaguing his closed eyes, those gentle but calloused hands holding the lighter with a delicateness previously unknown to Gordon.

_I’m alone, it’s not like he can see this. Why not let myself have a moment…_

Gordon exhales happily as he relaxes back into the pillows, drawing his hands up his hips again (but still on top of the blanket — if he were to touch himself it would make it too real.) But even as he finds himself falling asleep to the thought of the strange (but kind) man holding him, his mind flickers to the fox…

——

Gordon’s dreams have him chasing the fox, dark grey and white instead of bright orange, through the streets of the city. It seems to be enjoying the chase, and Gordon can’t help but be excited as well; the feeling of adrenaline pumping through his body nearly has him on all fours as well. Gordon sheds his coat and runs faster, fingers a hair’s breadth away from the fox’s tail, if only he could catch it, then this would all make sense —

He wakes up, sweaty and panting, having kicked the blankets off and tangled himself into the pillows. On the windowsill is the damn fox — uncaring that he’s naked, _it’s a fox, it’s not going to judge me,_ he leaps up and slams the curtains closed again. It led Barney to him, now it’s skulking around outside of his house, why wouldn’t the damn thing _just leave him alone!_

He can hear soft scratching on the window before he’s able to get back to bed, and he shrugs on his bathrobe, sighing. Gordon stalks into the kitchen and pulls the fridge open, grabbing the package of lunch meat and making his way back to his room. He opens the window and the fox sticks it’s head in, sniffing at the pack. Next to it is a larger grey fox — _the one in his dreams!_ — and it’s sniffing curiously at him as well, both interested in the package in his hands. Gordon pulls out some of the turkey and hands it outwards, and the grey fox snaps it up, narrowly missing his fingers. Gordon jerks back, but the fox almost seems apologetic, bumping his hand with it’s snout and making a little _huff_ noise. They leave soon afterward, and Gordon watches as they hop down the fire escape and into the streetlights below. He’s almost ready to turn away and go back to bed before he glimpses something far down the road — the foxes are gone, now, and instead at the end of the road stand two figures, one he was fairly sure he knew the identity of.

_Barney Calhoun, you better hope that I don’t remember this in the morning._


End file.
